


Brightly Wound

by left_uncovered



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Fluff and Angst, Growing Up Together, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Oblivious, Pining, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-11-20 23:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11345340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/left_uncovered/pseuds/left_uncovered
Summary: Michael has loved Jeremy for years. It just takes him a while to figure it out.Or: the five times Michael pined obliviously for Jeremy, and the one time he realized it.





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the [song of the same name by Eisley.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FEH2Ja3KnoM)

Michael is six when his mom starts setting him up on playdates with the other kids in his first grade class.

“I don't wanna go on a playdate,” he said stubbornly, after she’d finished explaining what exactly a playdate was – although by then it was too late, since she’d already called Max’ mom and arranged it for Saturday.

“You might make a new friend,” she said, pinching his cheek.

Michael looked up from the drawing of his meadow to pout. “I don’t _want_ to make friends.” And then he resumed filling in the clouds with his blue crayon. He did the sun next, clumsy hand drawing long yellow rays spilling down the page.

“Mikey _naman o_. Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” he grumbled. He didn’t think anyone in his class wanted to be friends with him, but that was okay because he didn't want to be friends with any of them, either. All he really wanted to do this Saturday was finish his drawing, organize his card collection, and listen to the Christmas tapes his _tita_ brought him.

And it wasn’t even that he disliked Max. Max was okay. They just didn't really talk much. Not that Michael talked much to anyone.

“You can show him your cards,” his mom enthused.

Michael bit his lip. “I guess.”

The thing is, he did want someone to share his collection with. He’d started a year ago, with an ace of diamonds from the deck his dad had used to teach him go fish. A tarot card from one of his weird _titas_ followed. And then from there he’d just kept going – the Boardwalk from their old Monopoly set, a Dark Magician Yu-Gi-Oh card. He had over a hundred cards now, all of different types.

His mom had once asked him what he planned on doing with them (“You can’t play any game with all those different cards!”), and he’d just shrugged. They weren’t really for doing anything with. He just liked having them, liked looking at the illustrations and sorting them by different types and colors. Sometimes, when he got curious, he’d ask her look up what each card did in its respective game.

The collection didn’t need explaining. It was just something he did. Michael didn’t think Max would get that, though.

*

On Saturday morning, he was proven right.

Max’ mom deposited him at the Mell’s front door while she parked in their driveway, and after some teeth-grindingly awkward introductions, Michael had led him up to his bedroom, where they were supposed to spend the afternoon playing.

And now here they were. Michael had the wooden box that contained his entire collection open before Max, who stared at him expectantly before looking confused.

“What do you even do with these?” he asked, eying the first stack (cards with blue illustrations and black borders). Before Michael could stop him, he grabbed the cards out of their compartment, flicking through them quickly. The cardboard made an unpleasant whooshing noise.

Michael twitched. All he could think about was Max getting the edges all creased up.

“I just like collecting them. I like looking at the pictures and organizing them by type or color.”

“So we can’t do anything with them?”

“We could go through the cards and I could tell you things about them,” Michael said hopefully.

Max frowned. He’d reached the end of the deck and was now preparing to whoosh the cards in reverse order. “That sounds lame.”

That was when Michael decided they definitely couldn’t be friends.

“Give those back,” he snapped, snatching them out of Max’ hands. “I don’t like getting them folded.”

“Whatever,” Max said.

They spent the rest of the afternoon building Lego structures in silence.

He recounts the entire disappointing exercise to his parents at dinner that evening.

“You said I was going to make friends!” he tells his mom accusingly.

“I thought you didn’t want to make friends,” she says, suppressing a grin.

“ _Nay_!”

He looks at his dad for back-up, but he’s laughing, too. Michael has never felt more betrayed.

“No more playdates,” he says crossing his arms.

“Aw, Michael,” his dad says. “Just because Max wasn’t very nice, doesn’t mean the other kids won’t be.”

Michael narrows his eyes and asks, “How do you know?” But by the end of dinner he’s agreed to try again next weekend.

*

Next weekend doesn’t go so well, either. Kev doesn’t call his card collection lame, but he doesn’t seem terribly interested in hanging out with Michael, either. Michael can’t even find it in himself to be offended, since he feels the same way.

Then after Kev comes Brian, and after Brian, Jason, and after Jason, Justin. At this point, Michael thinks his mom is just going through the entire class roster, trying to manufacture some kind of positive social interaction for him.

Brian had come the closest. He’d even been okay at first. When he’d gotten excited over the baseball cards, Michael had thought they could actually be friends. But then he’d learned Michael didn't really like or even watch baseball. He just liked the cards.

He'd given Michael disappointed looks for the rest of the afternoon, and had even tried to swipe the Yogi Berra card off him before he left.

“Will I have to go on playdates every Saturday now?” Michael asked, after Brian’s dad had picked him up from their house. He was beginning to hate them. They just felt like another way for him to be left out.

His mom smiled sadly at him. She probably knew it wasn’t working, too. “Just try one more, okay Michael?”

Michael sighed. “Okay.”

He only had to endure one more painful, awkward afternoon, and then he'd be free to return to his relaxing days of listening to cassettes and organizing cards. He could do that.

On Friday night, he learned the classmate coming over tomorrow was Jeremy. Michael didn't know much about him. He knew that he was quiet, just like Michael, and that during recess, when all the other kids would play out in the yard, he would sit hunched over his food like he was afraid someone would steal it.

Michael felt relieved that Jeremy probably wouldn't talk much. Maybe they could just sit and listen to one of the cassettes in his room all afternoon, which is what Michael would've done anyway, if he had the luxury of solitude. That didn't sound so bad. And at least Jeremy didn't seem like he'd make fun of his card collection.

*

Jeremy Heere has light blonde hair and a gap between his front teeth he covers up with his hand whenever he remembers it’s there. He’s shorter than Michael, and skinnier, too. Michael never noticed by just how much before, because he’d never seen Jeremy up close. But now he realizes there’s probably a reason he eats his snacks so defensively.

He’s sulking when his mom herds him through the front door, not even trying to fake a smile like Michael does. He thinks Jeremy might be the only kid in his class who hates playdates more than him.

“Hi Jeremy,” Michael tries.

“Hi,” Jeremy says to his shoes. He looks like he wants to disappear into the ground.

“It’s all right, Jeremy,” his mom says, squeezing his shoulders. “Come on.”

“Hi Michael,” Jeremy repeats. This time he makes eye contact for a second before looking away. His eyes darts across the room before settling on a point above Michael’s shoulder.

Michael notices he’s carrying his Star Wars lunchbox, the one with the droids scene printed on the front.

“You didn’t need to bring that,” Michael says. “My mom will make us snacks later.”

Jeremy just clutches the lunchbox tighter, distorting the circle of stormtroopers.

And then something occurs to Michael. “Hey,” he says. “Do you wanna watch Star Wars?”

His mom has a quota on how many times he’s allowed to watch it because it’s “too violent” for his age, but she’ll probably make an exception if Jeremy wants to watch it, too.

Jeremy’s grip on his lunchbox loosens.

“Which one?” he asks hopefully.

“You pick,” Michael says. “Come on.”

Jeremy follows him into the living room and sits down on the couch, while Michael sets up the DVD player. Jeremy chooses _The Empire Strikes Back_ because he’s apparently only seen it twice.

They don’t really talk much during the movie, which Michael likes, because he always thought movies were meant to be watched and not talked over. If he wanted to talk to someone, he’d just do it without the TV on in the background. But Jeremy still laughs and gasps at the right times, sharing little fun facts about the movie during the slower scenes, and it’s – it’s nice.

His mom shows up in the middle of it to bring them _merienda_ in the form of _turon_ , which Jeremy regards suspiciously.

“It’s just banana,” Michael says.

Jeremy picks it up and takes a small, tentative bite. And then a bigger one.

“This is good,” he says, in between crunches. Michael grins.

His mom gives him a thumbs up from behind the couch.

*

“Do you wanna see my card collection?” Michael asks when the movie is done and they’ve finished the food. After the incident with Brian, he’d stopped showing it to his playmates. But Jeremy seems okay.

“Cards?” he asks, face lighting up. “Sure!”

He follows Michael up to his bedroom, and to his desk, where the wooden card box sits. Michael picks it up and sets it on the floor between them.

“They're all different kinds of cards,” he explains, lifting the top off. “I kinda just like collecting them and arranging them.” He gathers up the six stacks and slips each out of their little plastic pouches. What he's looking for is in the first deck. He flips through carefully until he finds the Hydra Omnivore. The illustration is of some kind of reptile with six heads, and there’s a cool quote on it about how the hydra “devours everyone equally”.

“This is my favorite card,” he says, holding it up so Jeremy can see. “See the picture, it's – Jeremy?"

Jeremy is completely frozen.

“Michael!” he gasps. “That's mythic rare!” he says, pointing at the card in Michael's hand like it’s something precious.

“It's what?”

“It's a mythic rare card!” Jeremy says, voice rising a few octaves. “It's _special_!”

Michael beams. No one else ever thought the Hydra (or any card, really) was special. No one had ever gotten this excited over it. But Jeremy was. He was still staring, wide-eyed.

“Do you wanna hold it?”

“Can I?” Jeremy whispers.

Michael sticks out his hand, and Jeremy reaches for the card ever-so-slowly, sliding it out from between Michael's fingertips. He holds it at the tips, like he's afraid of sweating on it and accidentally smudging the ink.

“Wow. This is really cool, Michael,” he says, sill staring at the card. Then he looks up at him, a little tentative and shy. “We should play sometime.”

“Play what?” he asks, and just like that Jeremy’s all excited again.

“Magic!” he says, bouncing in place.

“How will we do magic with that card?” Michael asks, confused.

“No, not like magic tricks!” Jeremy says flailing his arms. “Magic: The Gathering! The card game!”

“Oh.” Michael feels himself color. It’s too bad this is going to go the Brian route. He actually liked Jeremy.

“I didn't know it was a card game,” he admits. “I don't really play with the cards. I just collect them. I like looking at them.”

He expects Jeremy's face to fall, just like Brian’s did when he discovered Michael didn't really like baseball and only liked baseball cards. Except it doesn't.

“That's okay!” he says. “I can teach you! I'll show you on our next playdate!”

He’s smiling ear-to-ear now, totally unselfconscious about the gap between his front teeth. Michael can’t help smiling back.

And just like that, there was a next playdate.

*

Sure enough, Jeremy brings his decks of Magic: The Gathering cards the next time he comes to Michael's house. There are a lot of rules; he can’t keep them straight at first, forgetting to untap his cards and using the wrong land for the wrong mana.

“How did you get so good at this?” he asks, after Jeremy beats him for the fourth consecutive time.

“I play it with my parents a lot,” Jeremy says. “Dad taught me when I was younger.”

Michael keeps expecting him to get frustrated and call the whole thing off, but he never does, just keeps re-explaining the rules and chiming in with little pointers whenever Michael’s about to play a particularly good card.

His mom has to practically drag him away from the Mell’s house later that afternoon.

“But I haven’t beaten him yet!” Michael says. In the background, Jeremy nods vigorously.

“You’ll see each other on Monday,” his mom tells him.

“But I want to beat Jeremy now!”

Both their moms just laugh.

Jeremy is still protesting half-heartedly when Mrs. Heere leads him to the car, shutting the door of the back seat on his pouting face.

A few seconds later, it swings back open, and Jeremy comes bounding out toward Michael’s front door.

“Here,” he says, shoving the cards into Michael’s hands. “So you can practice for Monday. It’s no fun winning all the time.”

Michael can only watch speechless as Jeremy flashes him one last crazy grin, and gets back into the back seat before he gets into too much trouble.

Michael watches the car drive off and thinks, so this is what it’s like to have a friend.

*

“Are there any other friends you want to hang out with?” his mom asks him several weeks later, when she’s picking him up from school.

He’s momentarily distracted by waving goodbye to Jeremy through the window of the back seat, until the car makes a turn and he disappears around the curb. Michael re-focuses on his mom, trying to remember what she’d been saying.

He’s confused for a second, because he doesn’t exactly have other friends aside from Jeremy, and she knows that. Sure, there were the other kids who came to their house before, but they weren’t his _friends_. They weren't Jeremy.

“Not really,” he says. “Just Jeremy.” And then he pauses to think, suddenly distressed. “What's wrong with Jeremy?”

“Nothing, sweetie,” his mom reassures him. “I know you like Jeremy. I like him, too. But aren't there other boys you want to hang out with?”

Michael thinks about the series of failed playdates and wasted Saturdays, Max mocking his collection and Brian trying to steal from it. And then he thinks about Jeremy, who teaches him card games and shares snacks with him at recess, who plays with him in the park and rides the bus home with him when his parents can't pick him up from school.

“Why would I want to hang out with anyone else?” Michael asks. “I have Jeremy.”

His mom laughs. “Of course you do,” she says.

And that was that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some brief translations:  
> Mikey naman o - roughly equivalent to 'Come on, Mikey'  
> Tita - aunt  
> Nay (nanay) - mom  
> Merienda - small meal eaten in the afternoon between lunch and dinner  
> Turon - [delicious banana-based merienda](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turon_\(food\))
> 
> Please enjoy these [various](https://www.instagram.com/p/BVXkjiHFiD-/) images of [blonde](https://www.instagram.com/p/07xQuCj7Gd/), tiny [Will Connolly](https://www.instagram.com/p/4NRdjTj7KJ/).
> 
> I am on [Tumblr.](https://softfists.tumblr.com)


	2. ii.

Michael is nine and making the world's best valentine.

He starts by drawing everything in pencil, then outlining it in marker, then coloring it in with crayon. He uses a ruler for the letters, measuring every H and A and P and Y precisely. Gradually, the picture begins taking shape.

Most of the other kids in his art class drew giant hearts inside of their cards, but Michael is avant-garde. He draws a giant Pac-Man instead, with a trail of little yellow hearts emerging from its mouth.

“What's that?” his mom asks, from over his shoulder.

"A valentine," he says, not looking up from his work. His last project had only gotten a 9 out of 10, because there'd been too many little white spaces in the bits which he'd colored in.

“Ooh,” his mom says, setting the bowl she'd been mixing down on the table. “Can I see?”

Michael finishes shading in the Pac-Man and hands her the construction paper.

“What do you think?” he asks a little anxiously.

“I love it,” she says, smiling, and Michael relaxes. She regards the card thoughtfully. “But why is there a Pac-Man?”

“It's for Jeremy,” Michael says.

“I see.”

“Do you think he'll like it?”

She studies him for a long moment. “I'm sure he'll love it.”

Given all the effort he's putting into it, he better, Michael thinks.

He's about to ask for the card back, when his mom says, “You wanted to make a valentine for Jeremy?”

“Ms. Kelly said we should make a valentine for someone we admire and care about,” Michael explains. “So I'm making it for Jeremy.”

His mom laughs and hands him back the card. “He is your best friend,” she muses.

“In the whole _universe_ ,” Michael says very seriously, just in case she doesn't get it.

*

He's practically vibrating with excitement when Valentine's Day rolls around.

He'd finished the card that weekend – he'd even added in gold and red borders – and carefully tucked it into his notebook, so it wouldn't get crumpled in his backpack. The card itself is pretty amazing, but sandwiched between it is possibly the world's _best_ Valentine's gift: the Hydra Omnivore from his collection.

Jeremy had never asked for it because he knew how Michael felt about his cards, but how much he enjoyed playing it during their weekly matches (which Michael could now win a good 45% of the time) hadn't gone unnoticed. Truthfully, Michael had been looking for an excuse to gift it to him for a while, because he knew if he just straight-up gave it without an occasion, Jeremy would just hand it right back.

Art is the last class of the day, and they can't give their cards until Ms. Kelly has checked and graded them. Michael can hardly wait.

The rest of the school seems all too ready to partake in the festivities as well. The walls are decorated with little hearts and red and white plastic streamers. Some of the kids in the grades above him are holding hands in the hallways. And, as per usual, self-appointed Gossip Queen Jenna Rolan is dishing the dirt to a circle of bug-eyed kids in their class.

Michael deliberately chooses a seat as far away from her as possible. Still, her voice carries across the room to where he's sitting, waiting for Jeremy to show up. Today's gossip is predictably about who likes who, who made valentines for who, and who is who's secret admirer. Michael thinks it's kind of stupid – both the gossip in general, and today's topic specifically. If you admired someone, why wouldn't you just tell them? And you didn't have to _like-like_ someone to make a valentine for them.

Jeremy arrives a few minutes later, much to Michael's relief.

“Hi,” he says, a little out of breath. His bangs are sweaty and clinging to his forehead. Michael guesses he probably ran to get to the classroom on time. “What’s up?”

“Jenna is talking about secret admirers,” Michael says.

“But if she knows, it isn’t secret anymore,” Jeremy points out.

“Jenna knows _everything_. How did your card go?”

Jeremy shrugs, settling into his seat. “I bet yours is better. You’re way better at art.”

“No way,” Michael says, because even though his card _is_ awesome, that’s no reason for Jeremy to put himself down. “I bet yours is good, too. Let me see.” He reaches for Jeremy’s bag, because neither of them has ever had a sense of personal space or property.

“No!” Jeremy screeches, tugging it out of reach. “It’s a _secret_.”

He puts his bag in his lap and folds his arms over it, as if he’s afraid Michael is going to take it while he isn’t looking.

O-kay. That was kind of weird. But then their English teacher is walking into the room and quieting them down, and Michael doesn’t have the chance to ask about it further.

*

Things only get weirder at lunch.

Jeremy is normally talkative – at least with Michael – going on about this game or that movie. But today he's just silent and red-faced as he opens his paper bag and starts devouring an apple.

He gets into moods sometimes, and he'll usually talk after moping for a while, so Michael gives it a few minutes before he asks, “Dude, is there something wrong?”

Jeremy actually starts at the sound of his voice, which is the weirdest thing ever, because they talk _all the time_.

“You're acting really weird,” Michael says.

“Nothing's wrong,” Jeremy say defensively, before taking another bite of his apple. His free hand is tapping a nervous rhythm onto the table.

Michael just stares at him as he chews until he cracks.

“Okay! Okay.” Jeremy looks to the left and then to the right, checking to make sure no one is watching.

And then he picks up his backpack and opens it under the table.

“Someone put this in here when I went to the bathroom,” he whispers.

From the depths of his bag, he pulls out a folded piece of paper decorated with little patches of glitter and sequins. It looks like the entire front used to be covered with the stuff, but that the rest of it had come off and exploded inside Jeremy's bag.

Michael isn't sure why a piece of paper is winding Jeremy up so much, until he opens it, revealing giant pink font spelling out HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY JEREMY in cursive, and then, in much smaller font below it, _from your secret admirer_. There's even a winking face after _admirer_.

“See?” Jeremy hisses. “What am I supposed to do about this?”

Michael isn't sure what to do, either. He doesn’t even know what to say, because for a second he can't breathe, because Jeremy – has – a – secret – admirer –

Except it turns out he doesn't have to say anything at all.

“Oh my god!”

The card is snatched out of Jeremy's hands by none other than Jenna Rolan, who holds it up as she reads it. Michael watches the whole horrific scene unfold.

“Give that back!” Jeremy says making a grab for it.

“Jeremy has a secret admirer!” Jenna sing-songs for the whole lunch room to hear.

“ _Shutupshutupshutup_.” Jeremy’s face is completely red. When Jenna doesn't shut up, he hides it in his hands.

“Give it back,” Michael repeats, standing up to get it, but it’s too late. Jenna has already made off with the card, and is now standing in the corner of the lunchroom, with a circle of their classmates swarming around her.

Michael looks back at Jeremy, who is now resting his head on the table, face down, completely still.

“What happened?” he squeaks out, still not moving from his position.

“Do you really wanna know?” Michael asks. He’s patting Jeremy’s back, trying to calm him down.

“Just tell me.”

“Jenna took your card and now she’s passing it around to everyone in class.”

Jeremy’s hand closes around his wrist, so tight he thinks it’s going to cut off his circulation.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have asked you to show it to me here.”

Jeremy doesn’t answer.

“Do you wanna go back to the classroom?” he asks carefully.

“Please,” Jeremy says.

Michael packs up both their lunches and prods Jeremy until he gets up. He’s not so red-faced anymore – just sickly pale. Thankfully, the rest of the class doesn’t notice them making an exit, too preoccupied with the stolen card.

*

They eat the rest of their lunch in the classroom. Michael tries to distract Jeremy by telling him about the movie he saw with his parents last weekend (“It was like, a dream _within_ a dream!”). He doesn’t think it’s working, at first, but then Jeremy starts asking about it more and more, getting so into the plot that Michael refuses to spoil any more of it, telling him to go see it himself.

By the time the bell rings, he’s loosened up, smiling and laughing easily at Michael’s jokes. It’s like he’s forgotten completely about the secret valentine. And even if he hasn’t, Michael knows he will once he sees just how awesome his card is. They just have to make it to the end of class.

*

Except things only get stranger from there.

Jeremy apparently hasn’t forgotten about the valentine, because he starts folding in on himself when their classmates begin trickling back into the room for math.

“It’ll be okay,” Michael says.

Jeremy just nods and busies himself with his pencil case and notebook.

Except the mockery Michael is expecting never comes. Instead, he watches bewildered as Lily and her two best friends, Jen and Abby slide into the empty seats behind, in front of, and to the right of Jeremy.

“Hey Jeremy,” Lily says, leaning over her desk.

Jeremy leans back ever so slightly, as if trying to escape her while still remaining stationary.

“Hi,” he croaks out.

“We heard about your secret admirer,” Lily says.

Jeremy sinks deeper into his seat. "Oh...yeah..." he mumbles.

“Who do you think it is?” Abby chimes in.

“I don’t really –”

“I bet it's Jill,” Jen says, and then a look of realization passes over her face. “No. Rachel. It's _definitely_ Rachel.”

Michael stares in disbelief. Rachel, if the other boys are to be believed, is the prettiest girl in their class. She has long blonde hair she wears in a tight braid, and blue eyes, like Jeremy's. She's also never talked to either of them before, but she's smiled at them in the halls and never badmouthed them, which Michael counts as a win.

Abby gasps, delighted. “You're right. It’s _gotta_ to be her. She's always looking at you!”

“She is?” Jeremy says.

“You're so lucky, Jeremy,” Lily continues.

“I am?”

“Of course! I mean, _obviously_ she's lucky, too. Just look at you.”

Jeremy's head spins around, looking from Abby to Jen to Lily, then back. The three of them are nodding in sync. He smiles a little nervously, and pushes the bangs that perpetually fall over his forehead out of his face.

Michael wants to ask what _that_ was about, but Mrs. S has already arrived, and it's not like he can ask while Lily and her friends are still around.

He's hoping he can pass Jeremy a note about it while they do their drills, but the girls monopolize his attention the entire class, whispering to him and among themselves every chance they get.

At first Jeremy just looks perplexed, shooting Michael confused looks every other second. But then he starts smiling a little to himself, shoulders relaxing and back straightening from his usual slouch. And _then_ he starts whispering back.

Pretty soon, the four of them have a secret whispered conversation going that's apparently so funny that Jeremy has to hide his giggles behind his hands several times. It’s so dumb. Michael keeps hoping Mrs. S will notice and make them stop, because it's getting kind of annoying and distracting, but she has trouble hearing, and they only ever whisper when her back is turned.

Jeremy stops shooting him confused looks. In fact, he stops looking at Michael altogether.

*

(Seven years later, in the bathroom at Jake Dillinger's Halloween party, he'll remember this moment and think, I should have known.)

*

He expects it will get better after math class, but it only gets worse.

He’d been hopeful, because Lily and her friends had vacated the seats surrounding Jeremy at the end of the period, but then a group of boys soon takes their place. And this time, Jeremy doesn’t flinch away from them. In fact, he looks like he’s enjoying their attention, even as he meekly responds to their questions about whether he thinks it was Jill or Rachel who put the card in his bag.

Paul, who sits in front of Rachel in art class, _swears_ he saw her working on it last week. But Dylan double-swears it’s Jill’s handwriting. Michael wonders how Rachel and Jill feel about everyone speculating about them being Jeremy’s secret admirer. Probably embarrassed – not that it makes the whole idea of keeping your admiration a secret any less stupid.

After the back-and-forth about the secret admirer’s identity becomes unbearable, Michael cuts in. “You know,” he says. “We can just wait until art and look for whoever doesn’t have their card anymore.”

There’s a little chorus of agreement, but it only quiets the discussion for a moment, before it ramps up again. This time, everyone wants to know what Jeremy did to get Jill-slash-Rachel’s attention. Michael kind of wants to know, too, but this entire _thing_ they’re making out of a _valentine_ is so stupid, and he refuses to dignify it by participating.

When there’s a lull in the conversation, Jenna turns to Michael and asks, “So who did you make your valentine for?”

It’s the first time anyone in the crowd has directly acknowledged him, and when they all turn to look at him, he feels his face burn up from the weight of their collective gaze. He still thinks hiding your admiration for someone is dumb, but he also still wants the card to be a surprise. And _fine_ , he maybe feels a little weird, admitting he made Jeremy a card, too. It’s far less interesting than whatever speculation game they all have going on right now.

“It’s a secret,” he says eventually.

“Booooo,” Jenna says, but nobody dwells on it too long, all too occupied with the Jeremy drama.

By the time they make it to art class, Michael is just ready for the day to be over. They hand their cards in in little white envelopes, so no one (thankfully) sees his.

They _also_ learn that it was, in fact, Rachel who gave Jeremy her card, because Paul announces, “Rachel’s envelope is empty!” when they pass them forward. And then Rachel has to march up to Jenna’s desk, take the card from her, and stuff it into her empty envelope _in front of everyone_. Michael feels bad for her, but really, she should’ve just given Jeremy the card in person and circumvented all the pointless drama.

Jeremy stares at her in awe for the rest of class, when he’s supposed to be working on their next project.

When they get their cards back at the end of the period, she doesn’t even bother giving hers to Jeremy anymore. “You didn’t have to give it to Jenna Rolan,” she mutters as she passes his desk on the way to the door.

“But I didn’t –” Jeremy tries, but she’s already gone.

The rest of their classmates walk past them, too, apparently no longer interested in Jeremy now that the card drama has blown over. Michael watches him deflate further with every kid who passes without saying hi.

“Are you okay?” Michael asks, once they’re the only ones left in the room.

“Yeah,” Jeremy says, stuffing his things into his backpack a little too forcefully.

“Sorry about the card thing,” he says. “I didn’t know you liked Rachel.”

“I don’t,” Jeremy says. “It’s – whatever. Let’s just go before we miss the bus.”

“Hey –”

“What?” Jeremy snaps. And then his face softens. “Sorry.”

Michael takes the card out of his front pocket and thrusts it at Jeremy before he loses his nerve. “Here,” he says.

Jeremy blinks.

“Is that…for me?”

“Duh. Who else would it be for? Open it.”

Jeremy slides the card out of the envelope and opens it. He just stares at it in silence, long enough that Michael starts worrying he’s done something wrong. But then he looks up at him and just – everything about his face is so soft suddenly. Michael bites down on the inside of his cheek.

“Thank you,” Jeremy whispers. It still sounds too loud in the silence of the room. And then, “Mine isn’t as good as yours but…”

He hands his own envelope to Michael, who feels a strange surge of relief. Not that he was expecting this or anything.

Jeremy's card is a lot simpler than his, no hearts or Pac-Man. Instead, there’s just, _Happy Valentine’s Day_ on the top and _Thank you for being my best friend_ on the bottom _,_ in his messy scrawl. And in the center, there’s a little doodle of what Michael guesses is supposed to be them, grinning and standing shoulder-to-shoulder. He laughs when he sees Jeremy’s drawn himself taller, even though that’s _totally_ inaccurate.

He looks up to find Jeremy's twisting his hands together.

“What are you talking about?” he says. “This is awesome.”

“Really?” Jeremy says.

“Yeah. Oh, there’s something else in your envelope.”

Jeremy picks it back up and reaches in, pulling out the Hydra.

He looks from the card to Michael then from Michael to the card, before eventually saying, “I can’t take this.”

“Of course you can,” Michael says. “Last touch.”

Jeremy laughs but shakes head. “I can't. It’s from your collection.”

Michael almost says, _you're the only other person who even cares about my collection_.

“Okay, how about I let you borrow it and I ask for it back when I want it? Deal?”

Jeremy regards him suspiciously, before nodding, and sticking his hand out for Michael to shake. “Deal.”

Jeremy is in good spirits the entire bus ride home. Michael isn't sure what to feel when he catches him tracing over the outline of the letters with his fingers when he thinks Michael isn't looking.

*

The next time he comes to Jeremy's house, he sees the card open on his desk, sitting next to a row of tiny vintage action figures. He expects it to disappear after February, doomed to collect dust in a back drawer somewhere, but it never does, remaining a permanent fixture in its little wooden territory.


	3. iii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for the use of a homophobic slur.
> 
> The angst portion of the fluff and angst tag begins here. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Michael is eleven, and his best friend is furious at him, and he doesn't know why.

Or, he thinks he _does_ know why, but he doesn't know _why_ -why, and there's a difference.

It starts in gym. Dodgeball was terrible no matter the circumstances, but having Jeremy on his team made it at least a bit more bearable. Coach had told them it was coming after winter break, like it was something to look forward to (“Warned,” Jeremy hisses, “He _warned_ us”) and they’d been debating survival strategies since returning to school last Monday. This is the first time they’ve been old enough to play it in gym, though Michael’s seen enough “recreational” matches to know how it usually goes.

The best approach, he’d decided, was to get hit early on. There was no way he could actually win, and players only became more vicious the longer the game went on, so there was really no point in prolonging the inevitable. Jeremy disagreed, mostly, Michael thought, because he had the advantage of being so unobtrusive no one would try to take him out first.

“You need to stop being afraid of getting hit,” Michael tells him, as they’re doing warm-ups across each other. Jeremy’s right leg is extended, left hand outstretched toward his toes. His gym shorts are a size too big and sag past his knees, but he’d been too embarrassed to exchange them for a smaller pair at the school bookstore after he’d realized it. “I mean it’s gonna happen eventually, so you might as well get it over with.”

“I’m not afraid of getting hit,” Jeremy says, as if it’s obvious. “Besides, it’s not even about getting hit.” He switches legs and Michael follows.

“Uh, that’s kind of the point of dodgeball,” he says. Jeremy just shakes his head.

“You don’t get it. It’s not about dodgeball, either.”

Michael just stares blankly as Jeremy makes increasingly urgent faces at him, as if that’s supposed to be helpful. Of course, Jeremy picks _now_ to start pulling this cryptic weirdness.

He doesn’t think he’s going to elaborate any further, but then as they’re lining up to start the game, he whispers, “It’s about _hierarchy_.”

“What?”

Jeremy surveys the rest of their classmates warily and says, “You can’t get hit first because dodgeball isn’t about dodgeball. It’s about hierarchy. Only losers get hit first.”

Michael snorts. _We’re already losers_ , he thinks, but it’s probably best not to say that.

“I’m okay with being a loser,” he says instead.

Jeremy looks affronted. “No! No, you’re not!”

Michael just shrugs.

Jeremy buries his face in his hands and makes a long _uuuuggnnngghhh_ sound. “Look, guys like that –” he nods across the court in Jake Dillinger’s direction “—will never respect you if you get knocked out first, in our year’s first ever dodgeball game.”

“But Jake’s nice to you,” Michael points out.

“That’s not the point! And Jake _tolerates_ me. There’s a difference.”

Michael rubs his temples. It’s getting hard to keep track of what is or isn’t the point, or what this does or doesn’t mean. And when did Jeremy start caring so much about middle school hierarchy anyway? It’s like he entered sixth grade and a switch flipped in his brain.

It’s not worth grilling him about, though, so as they're stepping onto the starting line, Michael just says, “I’ll get hit first then. That way you don’t have to be the loser.”

“Ready!” Coach calls out, whistle hanging from the side of his mouth.

“No, wait –” Jeremy says, looking panicked, as the whistle blows.

The rest of the kids around him sprint forward toward the balls, but Michael just stays glued to the starting line. When the first ball comes flying in his direction, he practically dives onto it, Steve Rogers-on-the-grenade-style. It has him doubled over for a few seconds, but it really doesn’t even hurt that much.

“Mell! Out!”

Michael straightens out and grins. Mission accomplished. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jeremy looking somewhere between betrayed and terrified. He gives him a half-hearted thumbs up and goes to sit on the bleachers.

He’s expecting Jeremy will eventually see the light and follow his lead, but five minutes later he’s still there, slip-sliding across the squeaky hardwood of the basketball court, avoiding the balls flying overhead. It’s oddly mesmerizing, the strange contortions of his body, the way his back arches then straightens to avoid incoming projectiles.

He looks terrified for most of it, but as more players get taken out around him while he remains untouched, his confidence seems to grow. Every once in a while, he avoids a ball by a hair’s width and whips his head around to grin maniacally at Michael, mouthing, “Did you see that?”

Michael feels a strange surge of pride. It’s just, he’s always proud of the awesome stuff Jeremy does, but that stuff is never awesome to anyone else. This is clearly different – Jeremy said so himself. He’s not really the type who cheers during sports, but he feels himself rising from the bleachers anyway, cupping his hands around his mouth. Jeremy hears him and turns to look, and that split-second frame of his face – eyes bright even through the hair falling messily over his forehead, wide open crazy grin – makes something in Michael soar. He feels like he could do anything, which is ridiculous, because it’s Jeremy who’s out there winning. Michael wonders if he might actually be the last player standing, just him and Jake Dillinger staring each other down across the court.

It doesn’t last.

When Dylan, the only other player left who isn’t a varsity jock in the making, gets hit, something in the air shifts. Michael’s stomach drops, and he wraps his arms around himself, quieting down.

As Dylan walks off the court toward the bleachers, he realizes what it is. There are only three of them left on their team, and when Jeremy is flanked on either side by two guys who really should not have the muscles they do at eleven, his rickety frame looks like a soft, easy target in comparison.

There’s a quiet rumble creeping from Jake Dillinger’s side of the court, chanting in a 1-2 rhythm Michael can’t place, until the syllables crystallize into, “Get him! Get him! Get him!” His whole body goes cold when he realizes they didn’t even have to specify who _he_ is.

Jeremy still looks like he’s having the time of his life, oblivious to the looming danger.

The whole thing unfolds in terrible slow motion. Jeremy throws a ball in the other team's direction, and Jake sidesteps it easily. He stops it with his foot, kicks it up into his hand, and then winds his arm back like he's some crazy sports android powering up. And then he releases.

The ball flies so fast Michael hears the whoosh of the air parting around it. Jake's teammates must have had the same idea, because there are three other balls flying towards Jeremy from different directions, too. He swears he sees it in his mind’s eye before it happens: Jeremy tries to spin and duck out of the way of the three balls, but ends up right in the trajectory of Jake's instead. It looks like it was aimed for his shoulder, but bent over like that, it’s heading right for his face.

The hit connects, sickening sound of rubber on flesh. Jeremy’s head snaps back, and then there’s a brief flash of red, before his body twists from the force and he crumples on the ground.

Michael is up off the bleachers before Coach has even blown his whistle, but Jake beats him to it, helping Jeremy off the ground and walking him off the court. Michael feels nauseous when he sees how badly his nose is bleeding, awful red spilling out from underneath the hand he has pressed against his face. He grabs the first aid kit and is fumbling with the tissues by the time Jake deposits Jeremy next to him.

“Sorry, dude,” Michael hears him say. “I wasn't aiming for your head.”

He taps Jeremy twice on the shoulder and, without waiting for a response, runs back onto the court, the game resuming around him.

Jeremy is bent over, like he’s trying to make himself small enough to disappear completely.

“Here,” Michael says, pressing tissues against his bleeding nose, and handing him a second wad to wipe his hands with. Jeremy takes the tissue wordlessly and begins cleaning his hands up. His head is still tilted down, eyes cast stubbornly on the floor, shoulders shaking very slightly. There's a bruise blooming where his nose meets his cheekbone. The damage looks so much worse up close.

“Are you okay?” he asks carefully.

“What do you think,” Jeremy mutters, still without looking up at him. He grabs the tissues out of Michael’s hands and holds them against his nose himself.

Michael takes a deep breath. He might not understand dodgeball or “the hierarchy” or how to win Jake Dillinger’s respect, but he does understand Jeremy.

“I think you did really good,” he says quietly.

When Jeremy finally looks up, his eyes are wet and red and brimming with unshed tears. Michael tries his best to give him a reassuring smile despite the ache in his chest, but then it’s like something in Jeremy just crumbles, and he lunges forward, throwing an arm around him. He rests his chin on top of Michael’s shoulder, other hand still holding the tissue against his nose to the stem the bleeding.

His mom always says that a sorrow shared is a sorrow halved, and a joy shared is a joy doubled; he’s never wished it could be true more than he does now. He thinks, if Jeremy has the bruise, he can take the bloody nose. He wants to split his chest open and offer him the steady heartbeat tucked away in his rib cage. Anything to make him stop feeling like this.

Instead, he just holds him, runs his fingers through his hair, tracing mindless patterns on his scalp until he stops shaking, and his grip around Michael loosens. He thinks, it’s not enough, but it’s something.

When Jeremy finally pulls away, there are tear tracks staining his face.

“You wanna go to the nurse?” he asks. Jeremy’s injury could probably be treated with the first aid kit here, but Michael knows how much he hates letting other people see him cry.

He looks uncertain at first, but then Michael offers him his hand, palm up, and Jeremy takes it, twining their fingers together. It's something they started doing a few years ago, whenever one of them would get nervous in class. They only ever did it underneath their desks before, because Jeremy said it would be weird if anyone else saw, but Michael figures there have to be exceptions.

“Yeah,” Jeremy says eventually, smiling weakly. “Thanks, Michael. You’re the best.”

Michael smiles back. “Obviously,” he says, but it makes Jeremy snort, so he counts it as a win. “Come on.”

They get up off the bleachers, fingers still intertwined. Jeremy is squeezing a little too hard, but Michael likes that, likes how his hand is a warm anchor between them.

They're almost at the door – and Michael’s already congratulating himself on another Jeremy Crisis averted – when Paul calls from behind them, “Hey, where are you two fags going?”

Jeremy freezes.

His hand tightens around Michael's then he yanks it away so suddenly he twists Michael's wrist. Michael doesn't know what's going on, exactly, but he does know, just from Paul's tone and Jeremy's reaction, that they’re being picked on again.

Jeremy unfreezes.

And then he’s sprinting toward the exit, hunched over again and cradling his hand to his chest, as if it's injured. Michael just stares for a second, before his senses return to him, and then he’s jogging after him. He can hear a chorus of laughter in the background until the gym doors swing shut behind him, and there’s only the silence of the hall.

Jeremy is a few feet ahead of him, no longer sprinting, but showing no signs of slowing down, either, powering on and not even looking back at Michael.

“Paul's a jerk,” Michael says, once he's caught up to him. It's become a familiar refrain lately. Everyone’s kind of a jerk in middle school.

When Jeremy doesn't respond with his usual affirmation, or even slow down, Michael asks, “You okay?”

He stops so abruptly Michael nearly runs into him. He whips his head around to look straight at Michael, and it's such a new look that it knocks the breath out of him completely.

“Would you stop asking that?” he grits out. He's breathing hard again, and his whole face is a violent shade of red. But what gets Michael most is his eyes. They've never looked so angry.

The words die in his throat. For the first time, he realizes he doesn’t know what to say to make this better.

Not that Jeremy even gives him a chance to. He holds Michael’s gaze for a second more before making a dismissive _tch_ noise and continuing his power walk down the hall.

Michael just stares in disbelief before following, trying to formulate a plan as he walks. He’s in uncharted territory here. He's seen Jeremy sad and frustrated and anxious, but never furious like this. He doesn't know what to do, so once he's caught up to Jeremy again, he does the only other thing he can think of, and reaches for his hand.

Their fingers have barely brushed before Jeremy swats him away.

“Cut it out!” he shouts, jumping away from Michael like he’s been shocked. His eyes dart up and down the hall wildly. Michael realizes suddenly, that he doesn’t just look furious. He looks _afraid_.

“Jer –”

“Stop following me!”

Michael recoils, hurt.

“You said you wanted to go to the nurse.”

Jeremy scoffs. “I can go myself.”

“But —” _But you’re hurt. And upset. And –_

“I can go myself, Michael. Just leave me alone.”

He gives Michael one last acidic look, before turning his back and walking away. Michael just watches him go until he rounds a corner and disappears.

The hall's silent again. Michael just stares at the spot where Jeremy used to be, and wonders how that went south so quickly. If there's one thing he's good at, it's talking Jeremy down when some bully has got him wound up, so he doesn't understand why he’s turned on _him_ , all of a sudden. Sure, he's gotten angry before, but never like this, and never at Michael, of all people. They usually got angry at bullies together. Not angry at each other.

Michael contemplates it the entire walk to his next class.

He thinks it was probably what Paul said. He’s called them both all kinds of stuff; he seems to have some new, creative insult every week. Last Monday it was donkey balls. His favorite one for Jeremy is skinny bitch. Michael thinks they’ve heard it all, at this point. But Jeremy's never reacted like this, so – maybe not.

It’ll be okay. Jeremy will have calmed down by next period, and after school Michael will come over to play video games like always, and they’ll both forget this ever happened.

*

Jeremy slips into math fifteen minutes late with a note from the nurse. His face has been bandaged up, and his nose is no longer bleeding, but he still looks anything but calm. He won’t even make eye contact, and Michael tries to ignore the sharp pang in his chest when Jeremy goes to sit at the far end of the room by the door, instead of in the chair Michael reserved for him. When the last bell rings, he’s up from his seat and out the door before Michael has even put his notebook away.

“Jeremy, come on,” he says, chasing after him as he storms out of the school. He shivers when he’s hit with a blast of cold air and pulls his coat on while he walks, trying not to break pace.

Jeremy doesn’t look back. Michael guesses he must have really messed up, because once they’re out in the parking lot, he walks right past the bus, just keeps stomping on, like he plans on walking the half-hour home. The snow from earlier has mostly melted, but it’s still freezing out. He could _die_. The thought of Jeremy lying face down in the snow spurs him on. It doesn't take long for him to catch up; he'd begun his growth spurt first, and Jeremy's strides aren't very long.

“What's wrong?” he asks, once they’re walking shoulder-to-shoulder. Jeremy makes an irritated noise and tries to speed up, but then Michael just speeds up too, and then they’re both just speed walking shoulder-to-shoulder. Jeremy seems to notice this, because he lets out another exasperated noise and slows to a reasonable pace.

“Jeremy,” Michael repeats. “Why are you mad at me?”

“Leave me alone,” Jeremy grumbles.

“It’s freezing. We should go back to the bus.”

No response. Michael sighs. Fine, if Jeremy doesn’t want to talk now, so be it. He zips his coat up and fumbles in his pockets for his gloves. Might as well be warm for the walk home. Jeremy shoots him sidelong glances as he does it, annoyed that Michael seems determined to stay.

*

Five minutes.

Jeremy’s neck is flushed from the cold.

“You should put your scarf on,” Michael tells him.

Jeremy pretends not to hear him, but Michael can see him shivering. He puts it on five minutes later.

Fifteen minutes.

Still no response.

The bus drives past them, tires kicking up dirty brown slush.

“That could’ve been us,” Michael says wistfully. Jeremy just shoves his hands deeper into his pockets.

Twenty minutes.

Okay, Michael is beginning to get seriously annoyed. Jeremy’s never ignored him for this long before, and it’s not like _he_ did something wrong. They’re nearing Jeremy’s house, and if he doesn’t get him to talk now, Jeremy will just disappear into his front door and avoid him until tomorrow.

“Seriously dude, what’s up with you?” Michael says. “Paul says stupid stuff to you all the time. You’ve never gotten mad at me for it.”

Jeremy snorts, still not looking at Michael. “ _Stupid stuff_ ,” he mocks. “Not all stupid stuff is the same stupid stuff, okay?”

God, Michael is so tired of Jeremy speaking to him in code.

“What does that even mean?”

“Some stupid stuff is worse than other stupid stuff,” Jeremy says condescendingly. “Duh.”

Michael’s never been more annoyed at his best friend. He summons his little remaining patience and says, “Not that. What Paul called us earlier.”

Jeremy rolls his eyes. “You know what it means. Come on.”

“Jer,” Michael says, frustrated. “You know I don't pay attention to that kind of stuff. Like, they’re all just _words_ –”

“It means gay, okay!”

Michael freezes, blood running cold. Jeremy’s breathing hard again. He shoots Michael a terrible smile, all teeth.

“Or do you need me to explain what gay is too?”

Michael feels like his throat has dried up, like his windpipe is closing. He can’t speak, and Jeremy seems to take that as a sign that he actually doesn’t know.

“A boy who wants to kiss other boys. That’s what gay means,” Jeremy says, every word dripping with venom.

Michael is so out of it he doesn’t even realize they’ve reached Jeremy’s house until Jeremy’s stepping off the sidewalk and onto the path to the front door. Michael watches numbly as he unlocks it, steps inside, and swings it shut so loudly the doorframe trembles.

He just stands there for a while, staring at the door so intently he thinks it might burn. It’s just – they were supposed to play video games today. Jeremy was supposed to invite him in and they were supposed to go up to his room and eat chips and get the controllers all greasy and maybe do some homework in between. Another good afternoon between best buddies. The highlight of Michael’s day, if he’s being honest with himself.

He stares a little longer before he accepts that Jeremy isn’t going to come back out and invite him in. And then he turns around and starts walking the two blocks home, hating how badly his hands shake, even when he stuffs them in his pockets.

*

Lying in bed later that night, Michael can’t help thinking about how stupid the whole thing is. Neither of them are even gay, and they certainly aren’t gay for each other. He knows Jeremy used to get comments about being a pretty princess all the time, but those mostly died down when his hair darkened last year. And just because people call him that, doesn’t make it true. Jeremy likes girls. He wouldn't be so angry about this if he didn't. And if he ever did like a boy, Michael's sure he'd be the first to know.

*

It takes an entire week before Jeremy apologizes and they start talking again. That Saturday, he comes over to Michael’s house and they spend the afternoon in the kitchen, Michael showing him how to make _turon_ , which they eat while draped lengthwise across the couch. It’s the longest time they’ve spent apart since they became friends, but it’s still disconcertingly easy to fall back into step with each other, as if nothing happened.

Except, Michael thinks, watching Jeremy devour his snack out of the corner of his eye, something obviously did happen, because now he has a mental list of things he shouldn’t do with Jeremy in public if they want to avoid being called _that_ again. No more hugs. No more head rubs. Definitely no more hand-holding, even if it’s underneath their desks. He misses the contact, still catches himself reaching for Jeremy on autopilot sometimes, but he tells himself it’s for the best.

Jeremy seems to have a list, too, except this one extends to things they shouldn’t do in private, either. Michael knows this because the next time he comes over for a sleepover, there’s a mattress on the floor of Jeremy’s bedroom, like he expects the people from school to peep through the crack in his closet door and catch them curled up in bed together. The mattress is soft and the blankets are warm, but it’s not the same as being able to tuck his face in the crook of Jeremy’s neck and press his cold feet against Jeremy’s ankles. Michael tells himself that’s for the best, too.

Jeremy’s words echo in his head as he falls asleep that night. _A boy who wants to kiss other boys._ Michael's never wanted to kiss Jeremy specifically, because he's never really wanted to kiss anyone. But he doesn't think he'd mind if he had to, and that’s probably just as bad.

**Author's Note:**

> I am on [Tumblr.](https://softfists.tumblr.com)


End file.
